


Symbiosis

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:06:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes's habit of grabbing anything he can for a disguise has negative consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to pharis for quick and helpful beta work whenever I ask (and I always ask several times over), for cheerleading, and for helping a computer illiterate like me navigate the big bad internet.

Breakfast time was Watson’s favorite part of the day. When he entered the dining room, his newspaper would be waiting on the table, and after giving Mary a kiss on the cheek, he would sit in his chair and glance at the headlines while she prepared his toast and tea. She knew his preferences, and the toast was never too dark, his tea never overly sweet. After the table was arranged, Mary would sit and take up one of her many letters, and they would read together in companionable silence as they ate.

But on one particularly frosty February morning, a pounding on the front door disturbed the newlyweds’ breakfast.

Watson lowered his newspaper. It was much too early for a social call. Mary stood and crossed over to the window, clearly anxious. She wasn’t yet used to being disturbed at all hours by her husband’s patients. They heard the maid when she answered the door, her voice mingled with that of an unfamiliar man. Watson rose from his chair.

As he stepped into the foyer, Watson could see a young man on the doorstep. His heavy breathing puffed out in white clouds in the winter air. “It’s Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson sent me to fetch you, Doctor.”

Watson realized he was gripping the door jamb so tightly his fingers were hurting, and he lowered his hand. “What is the nature of his injury?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the boy panted. “Mrs. Hudson just said for you to come straight away, sir. She gave me extra. Told me to run all the way here.”

Watson knew questioning the boy further would accomplish nothing but still had the urge to shake him and demand more information. He had known this would happen some day. Without Watson to rein him in and chase him down, there was no telling what situations Holmes would charge into. It had only been a matter of time before he was seriously harmed. Hearing Mary approach, Watson looked up at her.

“You’d better go at once,” Mary said, her eyes worried.

Watson nodded but still didn’t move. Then Mary touched his arm, and it goaded him into action. She hovered close, watching as he grabbed his bag out of the study.

“Send me word, John. Would you please? Once you know how he is.”

“Of course, my dear,” Watson replied as he stuffed his arms into his overcoat sleeves, one hand already on the doorknob.

Watson passed the drive calculating the amount of blood a man could lose in the time it took to travel from his own lodgings to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson met Watson at the door, wringing her hands. “Oh, Doctor! Thank heavens you’re here! He’s been—”

“Where is he?” Watson had no time to be polite.

“In his room. But Doctor—”

Watson turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time, ignoring the twinge he felt in his bad leg. Heart pounding, he burst through the doors of Holmes’ study. He looked at the floor, the settee, even the desk, all of the places he had imagined Holmes lying, bleeding, unconscious. It took a moment for Watson’s eyes to adjust to the gloom and finally distinguish Holmes’ figure amid the clutter. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, legs crossed, looking at a book. His hair stood up wildly, but otherwise he seemed completely fine. Normal, for Holmes. Uninjured, unharmed, and unperturbed.

For a long moment, Watson stared in disbelief. Then the energy that had fueled him in his panic turned into anger. “Holmes!”

Holmes looked up. “Ah, Watson. So glad you’re here.”

“Holmes, I thought you were hurt. I was told it was urgent. I thought you needed a doctor.”

“And so I do. I’m very uncomfortable.” As he spoke, Holmes grimaced and reached up with one hand to scratch the back of his head.

“Uncomfortable?” Watson answered. He let out a huff of disbelief. “I thought you could be dying.”

Holmes regarded Watson with one eyebrow raised. “I’ve never thought of you as dramatic, Watson.” Again, Holmes frowned and wriggled his fingers through his hair.

“I’m not being dramatic. Mrs. Hudson sent a boy running to my house to fetch me. I thought—” Watson stopped when he noticed that Holmes was still rubbing at his scalp. “What the devil is wrong with your head?”

“It itches,” Holmes stated simply. “I believe I have lice.”

“Lice,” Watson repeated. He felt unbalanced.

“Yes. I was following a crafty fellow over in Newington Green a few days back, and I thought he might have noticed me. I looked around for something to use by way of disguise and found a hat left hanging on the schoolyard fence. I can only assume—”

“You knew what the problem was, and still you sent for me?”

“I was fairly certain, but I thought you, as a doctor, could make a more definite diagnosis.”

Feeling his temper growing out of control, Watson took a deep breath and made a valiant effort to control his tone. “This is hardly a medical emergency, and it certainly doesn’t merit sending a messenger tearing through the streets to interrupt my breakfast. What exactly is it that you expect me to do?”

“I need you to get rid of them, Watson. It’s driving me mad.”

“Mad? By that I suppose you mean more so than usual.”

Holmes grinned at him, and Watson sighed. He crossed the room and pulled off one glove. Pushing Holmes’ head forward, Watson examined the nape of Holmes’ neck and could see clear evidence of the insects, dozens of tiny eggs strung like beads on Holmes’ dark hair.

“Oh, you have them all right,” Watson said.

“Do you have something for me? Something to stop this infernal itching?”

“There really isn’t anything I can give you.”

“What do you mean? There must be something.”

“Washing with vinegar helps, and dousing the hair with some kind of oil seems to slow them down, but the only real cure is to go through the hair and pick them out, the creatures and their eggs.”

Holmes’ expression was almost comical. Watson had finally discovered something that Holmes found distasteful.

“Sounds dreadfully tedious.”

“It is tedious.” Watson set his bowler firmly on his head and strode to the door. “Good luck with it.”

“Watson, you can’t leave me. How am I to see the back of my own head?”

“You must get Mrs. Hudson to help you.”

Holmes snorted. “I wouldn’t trust my head to that woman’s hands.”

“You should be more patient with her. She was frantic when I came in, the poor woman. You must have been beastly to her.”

Holmes waved his hand as if Watson’s concern didn’t merit any comment.

“If she leaves, she won’t be easy to replace,” Watson warned.

Holmes released a heavy sigh.

At the threshold, Watson stopped and turned. “If I stay and help you, will you promise to at least try to be civil to Mrs. Hudson?”

Another sigh left Holmes looking deflated in his chair. “If you insist,” he mumbled.

Pulling off his gloves and overcoat, Watson dumped them onto the settee. Then he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He noticed Holmes watching him from the armchair. “Pull your chair over by the window, would you? We’ll need light.”

Holmes cringed when Watson threw open the curtains, but he sat down without further complaint, and Watson came to stand behind him. Starting with the hair at Holmes’ forehead, Watson sifted through every strand, pulling the nits off with his fingernails and discarding them on a scrap of paper on a nearby table. He would throw the paper into the fire when they were finished.

“You seem to be quite the expert at this, Watson. You must have gotten full marks in lice removal.”

“I didn’t learn this at school.”

“No? Then where did you learn?”

“Afghanistan.”

This made Holmes pause. Watson’s military service constituted one of the few areas in which his experience and knowledge was greater than Holmes’ own, and Holmes didn’t like to be reminded of it.

Suddenly Holmes sat up a bit straighter. “Did you have lice?” he asked. His surprise was obvious.

“Yes. It was a common problem, conditions being what they were. It has nothing to do with hygiene, Holmes. By necessity, my personal habits were not as careful as they are here, but I managed to keep clean. There was nothing I could do to guard against something like this.”

“Ah. I was wondering why you hadn’t yet lectured me on the subject,” Holmes said, nestling back into his chair. “And how did you rid yourself of the problem? Hm? Did you have a comrade to patiently pluck each pesky parasite—”

“Stop moving!” Watson yanked on Holmes’ hair to angle his head properly, using a bit more force than was strictly necessary. Seeing movement by Holmes’ ear, Watson trapped a crawling louse and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger.

Holmes sighed, but it didn’t seem to be a unhappy sound.

“You find this funny,” Watson accused. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Enjoying it?” Holmes chuckled. “Why would I find bloodsucking insects preying upon my person enjoyable?”

Watson tried to ignore Holmes and continue his search, but after a few moments, Holmes pulled away, turning his head to one side and resting it against Watson’s waistcoat. Watson threaded his fingers through Holmes’ hair, ready to pull him into a more convenient position.

Then Holmes spoke. His voice was very quiet. “But you must admit, Watson, it’s been quite some time since I had your undivided attention.”

Watson froze. Holmes’ scalp felt warm under his hand.

After a deep breath, Watson grumbled, “Keep still.” He tugged at the hair in his hand, but much more gently this time, and Holmes let himself be arranged.

Both were silent for several minutes as Watson worked. He noted with some surprise the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Holmes rarely remembered to wind it. When his knee started complaining at his standing so long, Watson pulled a chair up next to Holmes’ and settled into it. If he was going to stay, there was no reason for him to be uncomfortable. He could tell it was going to take quite some time to finish.

*****

_My Dear Mary,_

_Holmes’ condition is rather less serious than we had been led to believe, but I think he would benefit from my presence here for the next few days. I will contact my patients and change my appointments, and in an emergency you may send a messenger here. I’m sorry to abandon you, but if things continue on their present course, I should be home in time to dress for our dinner engagement on Thursday. Perhaps you could use my absence as a chance to visit your mother, if you’d like. ___

_Your loving husband,_

_John_

The End


End file.
